The Death of Children
by Chauni
Summary: Slipping back into thier lives for a quick heartbeat, Steve and Ghost are informed of their current standing in the world.


Author: Chauni  
  
Email: ChauniMaxwell@mechpilot.com  
  
Website: www.geocities.com/asukalangley2nd/  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Steve, Ghost, Nothing, or any of the charries in this story. They all belong to the wonderfully talented Poppy Z. Brite, and I suggest that you go and read her wonderful works.   
  
Notes: I'm still hesitant on this piece. It's the first time I've attempted to write a fanfic on something that was not anime or laid out before me in visuals. I've tried desperately to keep everyone in character, and as far as the timeline goes, this happens after Lost Souls and before Drawing Blood and the side stories in Wormwood. As for the question mark on the end? Well, I haven't decided if this is all yet, so I'm leaving my options open, if you know what I mean.   
  
  
  
The Death of Children   
  
  
  
  
The slips of light that slid in uninvited through the plates of glass struck the thin wisps of eyelids and warmed the stubbled face beneath. Hands gripped dirty sheets, color around the knuckles fading to white, as he attempted to fight back the bile that rose in his throat and the hammers that drove rusty spikes into his temples. Another rough night; he could smell it wafting off him, the sweet clove smoke, the thick layer of beer that hung thick in the air, the soft scent of pot that gripped the edges of his nostrils before hiding back away. Another night at the club, as his fingers, calloused and hard, lived to tell the tale of guitar strings and off-key vocals that were made tolerable by the amazing grace of the lead singer. Another night of outcasts and music, of kids crying against the world that they were not afraid, even if they were.   
  
The house was eerily (and almost refreshingly) silent, letting only the occasional board creak with long needed rest. Outside there was nothing, nothing but the soft songs of birds that had never learned the common courtesy of gentle morning quiet. There was no wind, no sounds of the summer that burned outside like raging fire; nothing.   
  
One elbow found the pillow, even as he pushed himself up, cloth damp against his flesh. The sheet fell away, sliding down his naked chest to pool around his narrow hips and against the tight abdomen. One hand grabbed the corner, pulling the bedding off him, taking a moment longer than he had hoped as he had tangled himself in it sometime during the dark. Growling, he fought free, finding victory before finding his feet against the cool floor. Fingers met dark hair that made new directions, new pathways in the air, as he stumbled out into the hallway, narrowly missing a nice trip from his guitar in the process.   
  
The silence was as thick as the humidity, covering his body like the sweat that slid down his chest, collecting and dampening the top elastic rim of his thin cotton boxers. The other one, his housemate, had to be sleeping in, an odd thing, really. Normally the soft scent of banana-nut pancakes floated through the house before hangovers ever began to develop, let alone progress to this level. One dark eyebrow arched, but the narrow shoulders shrugged off such little intricacies. After all, they played their third set this week at the Yew last night; poor kid was probably tired.   
  
He stumbled towards the kitchen, intent on grabbing the familiar cool amber bottle and finding the cure to his headache within. The winter was gone, gone and nothing more than some memory that he willed to get rid of every night. In the beginning, he had slept beside his housemate, in the same bed, just to get the unconscious comfort, the patient calm of another person, a special person filled to the brim with some magic he couldn't even imagine starting to explain.   
  
But that had stopped once the weather had turned warmer, once the days grew in length and the idea of sunset at five-thirty in the afternoon was something of a perverse joke. The nightmares lessened, not in their frequency, but in their intensity, and in some ways, he found quiet peace in that. Enough to live on, anyway.   
  
He pressed the cool brown glass against his forehead, feeding the headache that lay beneath. It was slowly falling asleep, slowly hushing it's incessant whining, only to come again another day. He was used to it, the morning nausea, the late night drinking. People had once told him it would get old after awhile. As long as it kept the demons away, he didn't care.   
  
Of course, he had lightened up a tad after the winter, had stopped going to the liquor store every night to buy a new bottle of Jack, or whatever had caught his eye that day. Whereas society would call him an alcoholic, he would laugh back and them and call them ignorant fucking sheep. It didn't matter much to him.   
  
He set the bottle down onto the kitchen table, not really in the mood for any more Hopps and Barley hammering against his tongue this early in the morning. The house sat idle, staring at him, and he couldn't wait another minute more in the suffocating air alone. Best to wake up Ghost, if for nothing else, to have someone to talk to.   
  
He padded through the hallway, dodging a black t-shirt he had thrown carelessly onto the floor the previous night after he had stumbled in, two beers past memory and inhibitions. He felt quiet, strangely reserved as his mouth stretched into a yawn, threatening to dislocate his jaw in the process. He chalked it up to the fleeting hangover and the painful hour.   
  
He stopped before the door, the flat of his hand laying against it softly. Ann might have laughed if she could see him now, staring at some hunk of wood and imagining the silvery-gold boy lying in bed on the other side. She would mocked him, called him a pussy, called him a sap, called him a fucking mushy bastard.   
  
He would have told her to shut up...in less than pleasant terms.   
  
His calloused hand slid around the cool metal knob, turning it as he pushed. His mind's eye curled around the room that lay beneath, imagining the multicolored walls decked out in thousands of words, some to songs that he heard everyday, others just random that sounded particularly beautiful to one golden ear. Crayon streaks looped and created pictures, made waves and designs that coated everything from floor to ceiling and back around once more. Planets and solar systems gleamed bright when it was night, that neon green radiance slowly fading to a dull white with time and age. And finally, against one wall, tangled in sheets and silence, would be Ghost, one small foot peeking out like a fearful animal.   
  
He couldn't help but smile, the ends of his lips curling up as he shook his head, raven hair falling in front of one ear. Maybe they could take the T-bird out, going on a short roadtrip or something...Thank fucking God for days off.   
  
One bare foot slipped inside the threshold, passed through that gateway into color and comfort, and froze before connecting to the squeaky floorboards beneath.   
  
The silver-pale hair was strewn across pillow, dipping off it at the edge, while one naked arm snuck over the sheets. As Steve had predicted, one foot peeked out, tentatively pointing at the figure in the doorway with bright painted toenails that glittered like precious jewels locked behind glass cases in the high priced stores. Bedding slid down under his arm, revealing the small expanse of bare chest, hairless and lean, skin perfect and shimmering like it was the moon itself. Thin slips of flesh covered the pale blue eyes that lay beneath, long golden lashes sleeping gently against the tops of smooth cheeks, while thin glistening lips were parted and soft breath slid through. Light washed in through the window, pooling on the ground, on the bed, on the flesh that absorbed it and shone it back twice as bright.   
  
But it wasn't the sight of his companion that made him stop, but the few dyed black strands of hair intermingled with that field of familiar wheat. It was the other sleeping arm slung over his housemate, the other painfully thin leg sneaking out and laying atop the painted toes. It was the familiar face, the one that had looked on with pity as he stood encircled in his father's arms, the one that had held remorse, one that had stared on with quiet resolve.   
  
Instinctively, his hand reached for a bat that was long shattered, ruined beyond any sports glory dreams now. Fingers clutched air, then sank down into his palm, curling into a tight fist that turned knuckles white.   
  
"Nothing."   
  
He didn't like the weight of it on his lips, or the way his tongue lifted and brushed the roof of his mouth to make the sound. He didn't care for the protective arm around Ghost, or the curtains moving in a gentle gauzy way from the open window he apparently squirmed through. He didn't like the smell that hung in the air, sweat and something primal, feral, thick, suffocating.   
  
There were no visible marks on the pale shimmering flesh, and for that he was grateful. Hell, if he was a religious man, he might have prayed and thanked whatever deity sat in the sky, mocking them. But he wasn't, so he narrowed his eyes and leveled them at the knot of limbs tangled within the wrinkled sheets.   
  
One thin arm moved, the muscles tensing for a second before sliding over the bedding, fingers curled loosely. Long golden lashes peeled back, unfocused eyes like a newborn's staring at the ceiling and seeing nothing. Steve cleared his throat, drawing the golden boy's attention over towards him, forcing those soft lakes to settle down onto him with the normal calm, loving regard.   
  
"Is it that late already?" The voice was scratchy with sleep, hushed and muttered.   
  
Steve ignored the kindness, the question. His gaze drifted over the pointed shoulder, resting on the sleeping face of that young teenager with dyed black hair and dirty clothes. "What's he doing here?"   
  
Small elbows buried themselves in the pillow as the boy squirmed out from under the lazy looping arm. "He came in around five in the morning, through the window." The sunlight smoothed his voice, let it run out softer, though always carrying that gravelly tone that was so obvious and magical when he sang. "I let him sleep in here."   
  
The sudden surge of rage subsided at the innocence that leaked off the syllables like rain, dripping to the puddles with ripples seeping everywhere. It wasn't that Ghost hadn't realized the possibility of his housemate's anger; he had just hoped to sate it in the first precious moments before any irreplaceable damages occurred. He could feel the tension of the room, of the air that was labored and pregnant between them, could taste its sweaty texture on his tongue, before he lapped at his own lips for a moment. "Ghost…"  
  
"Steve." Thin limbs swung out from the bed, the soft pads of his feet meeting the wooden floor and a discarded t-shirt from the night before, stiff with spilled alcohol. "He needed somewhere to go. He was here, and he needed me and-"  
  
"Have you forgotten all that fucking shit that he's put us through by comin' here the last time?" the taller one hissed. A dark winter clamped smothering hands over his ventricles, and he fathomed he could taste the blood that wanted to seep into his lungs. Damnit! The beer he had abandoned whispered into his mind, coaxing him with tantalizing promises of forgetfulness and patience. "I won't go through it again, you fucking hear me, Ghost? I can't do it again!"  
  
"Shhhh," the pale image whispered, before walking towards the other. Willow-whisp arms found the narrow waist, clung to him tightly as he buried his face into one jagged shoulder. He tensed as he felt the taller body move against him, waiting to be shoved away or broken free from, but he had just moved from foot to impatient foot, eyes dark and staring at the object of discussion which was still tangled and asleep on the strewn bedding. His lips moved towards the pulse that beat steadily beneath the hard flesh, his breath hot against the damp shining neck.   
  
"Let's wait 'til he wakes up, Steve." The sweat was sharp on his tongue, but natural and addicting, softly stroking his sense of smell with long fingernails. He drove his face down into it, one hand resting against the back of the boy's neck, fingertips playing languidly with the ends of his dark hair. "Then we'll sit down and talk, together, and find out what's going on, 'kay? Please, Steve? Please?"   
  
Ghost expected the drawn out silence afterwards, was waiting for the low voice of his housemate to sit quiet and finally break through with either an affirmative or other. Such a touchy situation this all was that his confidence in Steve, in their friendship and whatever bonds may lay beyond, wavered, his own heavy breath sitting in dry, aching lungs. The fragrant smoke of many cloves from the night before, and between that, the singing, and the few mouthfuls of pot he and Steve had shared, he was paying for it in full this morning.   
  
"Let's talk about it now"  
  
"But he-" but Ghost had stopped in sentence, the lagging realization that it was not Steve that had whispered it, but the cracked lips of a small teenage boy sitting up among wrinkled damp sheets and crumpled pillows. The white figure looked over his shoulder, never loosening his hold on his taller companion, and spied the murky eyes he had seen almost a year ago, dyed dark hair flopping loosely down into them. The t-shirt was a tad too big for his painfully narrow frame, exposing the smooth top of a sleek pale arm. Underneath the blankets, Ghost could imagine the black jeans that he had felt scraping against him in the night, the same weighted material he had been first aware of when he felt Steve standing in the doorway.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"I booked you guys a gig up in New York," Nothing said, attempting to find some sort of comfort in the worn couch, curling against one lackluster cushioned arm. A few smudges of dirt were splashed over the tops of his cheeks like a nightmarish rouge, shadowing and accenting in the most model of spots.   
  
"You did what?" The cool beer sat comfortably in Steve's hand once again, his fingers unconsciously picking at the silvery papered label, curling the battered edge back and leaving a transparent layer of glue in its wake. "Why are you doing any favors for us?"   
  
"Zillah had friends," he responded, almost visibly sinking down lower into his skin. He fumbled within a dark denim pocket for a moment, only to produce a crumpled package of cigarettes, slipping one between his small lips. Transparent plastic green flashed into his small hand, a green that was too similar to memory's eyes, flint striking and bursting into a small flame. The papered end flared up, sparking into flaring orange embers. He inhaled deeply, swallowing it down into the depths of his lungs, before releasing it out through his nose, smoke lazily wafting in front of his eyes. He visibly calmed, as if a giant hand had massaged the nervousness out of his thin tight muscles. "He didn't have a lot, but the ones he had were pretty damn close."   
  
Pale eyes shifted towards Steve, questioning the enigma that sat on the end of the furniture. A harsh glare was his response, and truth be told, he had not expected much less from his housemate. After all, winter was not that faded yet, the edges still crisp and awaiting to slice the delicate flesh, peeling it back with its cruel razors. Clearing his throat, he drew his thin legs up underneath his body, curling them at the knees and sitting atop them. He had grabbed his own brown bottle in the awkward trip from bedroom to living room, and found that it served a better purpose for keeping his hands busy than anything else.   
  
"So you want us out," Steve muttered, lips poised over the bottle, his words trapped and echoing in the dark glass. He cast his gaze towards Ghost, holding him there for a moment, before his raven hair dipped back, filling his mouth with the familiar amber taste.   
  
Smoke drifted languidly before his face, lingering around the boy's dark head for a moment, before slowly dissipating. "For your own safety. They've heard things, know some shit. It's just not safe for you guys here right now."   
  
Small fingers tugged on an errant string that protruded from one couch arm, twirling it around the smallest fingers with pale eyes attached as if they had been soldered there. "Leave?" The house leaned in, as if to embrace him, as if to burn it's memory into his veins, his very molecules. He wanted to cling to it, to the pile of wood and mortar, to the souls that lurked between the walls and behind the glass, to the room covered in words that enthralled him. The symbol on the porch outside grabbed his heart, wrenching it, as he saw it behind his open eyes. Leave this place? His home? His safe haven? His heaven?   
  
He could feel the speculation and anger sliding like eager tentacles around the lank body of Steve, sitting so comfortably in a chair that was mismatched from the couch, but equally as stained. Ghost stared up at him with beseeching eyes, witnessing the other undercurrent that he had missed before, the snake that devoured all the others.   
  
His utter need to protect Ghost.   
  
His smile was thin, strangling him. "We can get Terry in here to take care of the place while we're gone, Steve. Wouldn't be hard, you know."   
  
Black hair swayed. "I know."   
  
"We can come back again," the pale visage whispered, feeling the smile fill out, wrapping burning arms around him. "This isn't forever. And you have been wanting to take a roadtrip for awhile now."   
  
Another swig, and a smile would slowly slip into his face. Ghost's belief was always intense, as if the world was wrapped around his ideas and he knew, ultimately felt, that all would end in a beneficial light, regardless of the neck-deep Hell they might have to trudge through in ankle waders. If Ghost said they could come back, they would. And if Ghost said that he believed Nothing, then he had no choice.   
  
"Yeah, a nice roadtrip. Maybe afterward, we can head out to California or something."   
  
The satin eyes rolled to the smoking boy a few feet away from him, offering what his lips would not: a chance to come with them, to turn and high tail it away from what Fate, that Eternal Bitch, had set down before him. He watched the cigarette hesitate, pausing before his lips, dark eyes flaring with a want so deep, so harsh, Ghost feared it would destroy him on the spot.   
  
...so lonely...  
  
"Have to get going," Nothing muttered, taking a final drag to settle into his lungs while he stamped out the smoke in a cluttered ashtray among several other orange butts and a few burned down joints. "Molochai and Twig are waiting for me."   
  
"You don't ha-"   
  
"I'll see you later," he said, slipping free from the delicious, broken-in hold of the couch and moving towards the door. His black shoes slipped across the floor, avoiding the strewn beer cans that glittered like silver treasures.   
  
Ghost watched the back of the black shirt slide out the door, whispering under his breath. "Goodbye, Nothing. See you again soon."   
  
The sound of a bottle striking the floor jarred him back to his surroundings, and he met the suddenly warm eyes of his housemate, soon to be roadmate. The highway would soon be their whore, and they would ride that lady any where they damn well pleased, T-bird willing. The smile gripped his lips, pulling them upwards towards divinity, watching as Steve untangled himself from the chair to begin packing.   
  
"You sure about this, Ghost?"   
  
"Yeah," he called out to Steve disappeared into the cluttered room that was his. "As long as you're there, I am."   
  
And even the walls couldn't hide the heat that slid from that familiar room, or the smile he could see just beyond them.   
  
  
  
  
The End? 


End file.
